


Heartline Roll

by Thascalos



Series: First and Last and Always [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Bouncy Castle, But Not The Doctor's Boundaries, Disco Space Buffalo, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Kisses, Gratuitous Juggling, Handy Spare Hand, Handy's Got The Doctor's Knowledge, Humor, M/M, Mind Meld, The Master Has Issues, Voyeurism, Xenophilia, Xenophobia, space boyfriends, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thascalos/pseuds/Thascalos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor, the Master, and the Doctor's human clone go to a space carnival. The Master wonders what he could ever have possibly done to deserve such a fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my story, [Gift](http://archiveofourown.org/works/950532), but it's not necessary to have read that to read this. But if you enjoy sexy boys having sexy times, you should totally read it anyway.  
> As always, many thanks to my awesomesocks beta, [nonelvis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nonelvis/pseuds/nonelvis).

The Master scowled. No one noticed, which made him scowl more. Maybe it was the ridiculously large cone of candy floss that the Doctor had shoved into his hands. He held the sickeningly bright blue sugar concoction a little farther away from his face. 

This was the first time he'd been let out of the TARDIS since the Doctor and his awful thing had captured him. He'd now spent several weeks cooped up in the Doctor's moody ship, with the Doctor constantly hovering around him, his behaviour a nearly unbearable mixture of apology and autocracy while the metacrisis stood back and observed, almost sinister in its unfathomability. When the Doctor had proposed his little idea -- _Three trips! We'll each pick a destination! It'll be great. A change of scene, a bit of fun, what do you think? I'll go first!_ \-- the Master had, to his shame, almost literally jumped at the chance to get out of the ship. 

He should have realised that given all of time and space to choose from, the Doctor was statistically bound to pick a destination that was virtually tailor-made to contain everything in the universe that the Master hated. 

"What, don't you like candy floss?" the Doctor asked him, finally noticing the scowling. "Everyone loves candy floss! It's like a bright, fluffy little cloud that you can eat! Oooh, look at that!" he gesticulated wildly, pointing through the throngs of noisy people, grubby tents, and brightly flashing lights of the 234th Carnival of the Upper Flaxiform Cluster. "One of those robots that try to guess your age! They never get mine right. Although there was that one that came pretty close. Of course, that was how I discovered that Optiveullian invasion force..."

The Master wondered how difficult it would be to murder someone with candy floss. 

"They were rubbish, weren't they?" the Doctor's freakish doppelganger broke in. It grabbed a huge tuft of floss from the Master's cone. The Master glared at it. Okay, so he hated candy floss, did that mean he wanted some freak of nature taking _his_ sweets without even asking?

"Yeah, they really were," the Doctor said, adding insult to injury by following in his doppelganger's lead and stealing another large tuft. "An invasion force of a dozen sad clowns... they were almost too depressing to fight against."

The Master frowned at the candy floss. He had, after all, once created an army of killer daffodils. If he were given a bit of time, he was sure he could come up with something delightfully gruesome. Acid in the sugar was just too easy, not to mention inelegant. Maybe if he laced the sugar with microscopic nanite strings, which would attack the victim's nervous system...? Maybe he could get a whole new army of mind-controlled candy floss-faced zombies --

"What are you doing, trying to commune with the food colouring?" the Doctor asked, displaying his incredible gift for saying the most annoying possible thing at any given time.

"He's probably just trying to come up with a way to kill people with it," the metacrisis said. 

Dammit. 

"I was just reflecting on how peaceful it will be when your prematurely rotten teeth fall out of your heads," the Master said. "Although I suppose even that wouldn't shut either of you up."

"Mmm, probably not," the metacrisis said, just as the Doctor said, "You _do_ know about dentures, don't you?"

The Master said nothing. He said nothing so effectively he could almost hear his own teeth grinding together. His two companions exchanged a look over his head.

"Look," the Doctor said, "we don't have to do this trip if you don't want to. I know I said we'd each pick a place to go, but if you really hate this one, we can skip it."

The Master shot the Doctor a look of pitying contempt, trying to cover the sudden stab of anxiety that rose in him at the Doctor's words. "Really, Doctor? Already giving up on your pathetic plan to mould us all into a sweet, happy family -- mummy and daddy and their spoiled little sprog, eating sweets and playing games and realising how much we just _love_ one another?"

The Doctor frowned, and the Master felt a little better, knowing he'd hit the mark. 

The metacrisis smiled and slid its arm around the Master's shoulders, gripping his upper arm just a little more forcefully than it needed to. The Master could feel the unnatural heat of its body pressing up against him through its clothes, and tried to control his instinctive reaction to shrink away from it. 

"Oh, come on!" it said, cheerfully. "I'm sure the Master doesn't want to miss out on all the great things this world has to offer. Right, Master?" it asked. It slid hot fingers past his knuckles and up his cuff, to briefly touch the psychokinetic restraint that circled his wrist, then slid them down again to pluck the cone of candy floss out of his own unresisting fingers. It took a bite out of the candy, making sure to curl its tongue around a tuft of spun sugar as it did so. 

"Hey," the Doctor said, and the Master fervently hoped that the afternoon shadows and the flashing, multi-coloured lights would be enough to conceal the flush travelling up his face. "Learn to share a little, why don't you?"

"Oh, _fine_ ," his doppelganger huffed childishly. It rolled its eyes and then uncurled itself from around the Master, letting its hand trail along the small of his back just a little longer than necessary, then plucked a tuft of sugar off the cone and held it out to the Doctor. The Doctor raised his eyebrows, but still accepted the sweet offering from off of its fingers. 

"You two are positively _revolting_ ," the Master snapped. "If you hadn't wiped Rassilon from the face of history he'd be rolling in his stately grave."

"What, you mean the one covered in actual faces?" the Doctor replied. "Yeah, that's a man whose personal judgements I'd take seriously." 

The metacrisis burst into laughter. The Doctor looked entirely too pleased to be found amusing by a thing that essentially shared his brain, confirming both that he was a narcissistic dolt, and that the Master really, really needed to figure a way out of these psychokinetic restraints. 

"Let's stop talking about dead megalomaniacal dictators who hated us, and start having fun with the one who's right here!" the thing said, looking back at the Master and licking the sugary remnants off of its fingers with a wink. "What should we do first -- find a ride that'll make us want to throw up, or play carnie games until we irresponsibly win a small animal?"

"Oh, I know exactly what we're going to do first," the Doctor said, grinning. 

The Master really did not trust that grin.

 

********

 

Okay, so the Master had to admit that dodgems were not one of the Doctor's worst ideas. A whole game centred around repeatedly ramming into the Doctor with a compact vehicle? Definitely an idea he could get behind. 

The Master dodged a car being driven by a purple woman with a bright yellow wig, and zeroed in on his target. The Doctor looked back at him, grinning wildly, and turned his little car a sharp left, making the Master swerve wildly to avoid him. Submitting to the Doctor's sad masochistic tendencies wasn't _nearly_ as satisfying as setting him up and then destroying him without warning. 

His whole car jolted as it was hit from behind. The Master looked back, expecting to encounter the Doctor's insufferable grin, but instead saw two pre-adolescents laughing and giving each other high fives. He felt his lips curl into an involuntary sneer, but before he could do anything else the offenders were crashed into with such force they spun right past him, screaming. The metacrisis drove up next to him, a grin splitting its face. 

_"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"_ the Doctor yelled from the other side of the electrified floor.

"Oh, come on, those were screams of fun!" his doppelganger yelled back. It turned back to the Master. "What d'you say -- want to be my wingman?" it offered, motioning towards the Doctor's appalled face with a predatory tilt to its eyebrows.

"Oh, please," the Master replied, injecting those two words with as much disdain as possible while sitting inside a comically tiny car with a cartoon animal painted on its hood. He smirked a little. "You'll be _my_ wingman, obviously."

The metacrisis laughed, showing its teeth.

"Of course, Master," it said, and sped past him. 

 

********

 

"I think if you're ever in a position to take over a world via tiny electrified car, we've just given you the knowledge to do so," the metacrisis said to the Master as they opened up their miniature car doors and hopped onto the deactivated floor plates of the dodgem ring. 

"I would love to think of that sentence as 'unlikely' or even 'deeply stupid'," the Master replied, "but I've seen enough of the idiotic situations the Doctor likes to get himself into, so I'll try to keep that information at hand."

"Neither of you understand the concepts of 'fairness' or 'sportsmanship', do you?" the Doctor complained as he tried to extricate himself from his tiny car, which was wedged into a corner by his companions' abandoned vehicles. 

"No," the Master said, just as the metacrisis said, "Don't be such a sore loser!"

"Dodgems doesn't have winners or losers!" the Doctor yelled, just before he tripped over a rearview mirror and fell onto the floor.

"It does if you're playing it right," said the Master. 

 

********

 

"Hey!" the Doctor said, sounding suspiciously enthusiastic. "Who wants to ride through _DEATH CANYON_?" 

A truly incredible latticework of metal towered above them, looping around and through an artificial mountain that would have dwarfed some of the more impressive peaks of Mars. Just looking at it was enough to give the Master mild vertigo.

"Wow!" the metacrisis said, head craned nearly perpendicular to the ground in its effort to see to the top. A train of passengers sped by above them, their piercing screams of terror clearly audible even from several hundred feet below. 

The Master looked at the cheesy, Western-inspired sign posted at the front of the queue for the ride. A speech bubble coming from a friendly, cartoon cactus read, _Howdy, PARDNERS! Don't forget to sign your DEATH CANYON - Accidental Death Waiver Forms before you SADDLE UP!_

"I'm afraid it's simply not in my nature to enter a structure with that many cowboy hats decorating its entrance," the Master said. 

"Think about it, Master," the metacrisis said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Maybe you'll get lucky and one of us will actually die."

Damn.

That was a good point. 

 

********

 

"That was fantastic!" enthused the Doctor as they exited _DEATH CANYON_. He was nearly bouncing. "Want to go through again?"

"Once was enough," the Master said, trying not to sound queasy.

"C'mon, Master, we didn't even get wet that time!" the Doctor said, trying -- and failing -- to sound reasonable at all.

"Oh, look, photocubes!" the metacrisis exclaimed, a few feet in front of them. It grinned, looking just as excited as the Doctor. "Look, you can buy a little hologram of when we went through the 'Sudden Death Gravopeak'!

The Master looked at the little holocube of their car, the tiny reproduction of their split-second reactions preserved for all time.

"If either of you buy this," he said, "I promise I will kill you. Slowly. After torturing everyone you love."

"Promises, promises," the Doctor said, just as the metacrisis said, "Sounds like our anniversary." 

The Master glared.

"Oh, all right," the metacrisis grumbled, setting down the cube.

"Has anyone ever told you you've got a very expressive scowl?" the Doctor asked.

"You are the worst at flattery," the Master said. "The absolute worst."

 

********

 

"Oh, my god --!" The metacrisis grabbed the Doctor's arm and pointed. The Doctor's eyes went wide.

"Oh yes!" he said, eyes sparkling with wonder. 

The Master looked towards the object of their excitement, puzzled. 

"What the hell is a... 'bouncy castle'?" the Master said.


	2. Chapter 2

Apparently bouncy castles were pretty much exactly what they sounded like. A garishly coloured, inflatable building into which people actually paid money to go and pointlessly jump around. Or, more accurately, into which they paid money to let their horrible children go and jump around, while they wisely stood outside and drank. 

"I can't believe you're in the most brilliant bouncy castle in the whole quadrant, and you're sitting on the floor!" the Doctor said as he bounced over the Master's head. 

"I can't believe I'm in a three-story tall contraption made of hyporubber and compressed air, surrounded by jumping, screaming children, and there's no way for me to turn off those pumps and turn this whole thing into the deflatable death trap it's so clearly striving to be," the Master replied. 

"Everyone knows that any good ride is a death trap waiting to happen!" the metacrisis said as it sailed by. 

"This isn't a ride!" the Master said.

"Well, same principle!" the metacrisis said, deliberately jumping up and down right next to where the Master was sitting, making the floor bounce underneath him. "Everything's more fun when a bit of danger's involved, isn't it?" 

"Oh, is that why you're jumping right there, then?" the Master asked.

"What do you -- WAAUUUGH!" the metacrisis yelled, as the Master grabbed its ankle mid-jump and yanked. It fell in an ungainly heap, face bouncing off of the floor. Before it could scramble to its stocking feet, the Master shot up from the floor and bounced straight over its flailing limbs and down a neon pink rubber hallway. 

The psychokinetic restraints were set so that he literally couldn't do anything that he thought might actually hurt someone. The Doctor had demonstrated that quite effectively on the TARDIS, when he'd first put them on the Master and then said, "Now, try to slap me in the face." 

But the _nice_ thing about a bouncy castle was how a person could fall flat on their face onto its floor, and just bounce right off of it without a scratch. 

"You're right!" the Master yelled back over his shoulder as he bounced away. "This is definitely the most brilliant bouncy castle I've ever been in!" 

He rounded a corner and found a group of kids waiting to climb an inflatable abseiling ladder. A little girl had just climbed the first few rungs. 

"Hey!" she cried as the Master picked her up off of the ladder and dropped her to the bouncy floor. "No fair!"

"You're right, it's not fair," he said, starting to climb. "But guess what? Neither am I! That's a free lesson on how the world works! Hope you enjoyed it!"

Once he reached the first story of the castle, the Master leaned over a railing and scanned the faces of everyone below him. The Doctor and his double were easy to find, with their stripey suits and stupid hair. Plus, they were the only other adults in the whole castle.

"Hey, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum!" the Master called down to them. They looked up with twin expressions of surprise. "You're not even going to try to catch me? I thought you were trying to show me a good time here!"

He saw the Doctor's face break into a grin, and the metacrisis looked up at him with that same little predatory gleam he'd seen in its eyes as they'd cornered the Doctor in the dodgem cars. 

Much better. 

The Master bounced back into the maze of neon rubber corridors. This might be the largest, most impressive bouncy castle in the whole quadrant, but that didn't mean it was actually the size of a real castle. If he stayed on this level, he'd definitely be cornered. Doubling back to the ground level and then bouncing straight out of this inflatable nightmare was the best course, but when he bounced back to the ladder he'd climbed up in the first place he looked down and found one of the Doctors already at the bottom, surrounded by a large group of disgruntled children. Okay, that was definitely a dead end. He bounced away to the spiral staircase that shot up through the middle of the castle and reached it just as the other Doctor bound up the last couple of steps and jumped straight at him. 

The Master grabbed one of the many rubber tubes hanging from the ceiling and swung out of the way, feeling fingers clutch briefly at the fabric of his suitcoat. He looked behind him and saw his pursuer -- the metacrisis, he noted -- waiting to grab him after he inevitably swung back, so as he reached the apex of his swing, the Master released his hold and jumped onto the shoulders of a tall inflatable statue of a cartoon duck.

"Ha!" the Master yelled at the metacrisis, and climbed up onto the duck's face. He looked down at the giant duckbill he was perched on top of, which was starting to bow under his weight. "Um," he said, sliding toward the little pince-nez at the end of the duck's bill. 

"Grab a tube and swing back here before you fall!" the metacrisis called out.

"Do you actually think I'm that much of an idiot?" the Master yelled back. He scrambled up the duck's face, until he reached the top of its head, which was tantalisingly close to the open walkway of the second floor. He bounced on top of the inflatable duck, trying to give himself enough height to reach the next floor, and then on one hard bounce he heard a loud "POP". 

"Whoops," he said.

"Oh, _now_ who's the 'sheep' for taking their shoes off when they came into the castle!" the metacrisis yelled, with its hands on its hips. 

"It's still you!" the Master yelled back angrily. He could feel the plastic underneath him getting softer and less springy with each jump, so he bent his knees and gave one last great jump, stretching his arms as far as he could -- and _just_ hooked the edge of the walkway with the tips of his fingers. No time to gloat; he grabbed onto the rubbery bars of the railing and painstakingly hauled himself up and over it and fell gratefully onto the bouncy floor.

"Very nice bouncing," said the Doctor, who was standing calmly over him, a smile quirking up one side of his mouth. 

The Master swore. 

"That's not a very nice thing to say about Omega's dog," the Doctor remonstrated. 

"Funny... though...." the metacrisis panted, as it flopped past the last steps of the spiral staircase and collapsed onto its knees next to the Master.

"Thanks," the Master said, not sounding quite as sarcastic as he'd meant to. The metacrisis grinned at him. Damn. 

The Doctor was peering over the railing.

"Ahhh... looks like it might be a good time to make our way to another part of the carnival," he said, pointing out several other adults who had just appeared at the front entrance of the castle, and who were gesticulating at the speedily deflating duck with consternation. The little girl from the abseiling ladder was talking to one of the carnival runners and pointing up at them on the second floor. 

"Oh, that little brat!" the Master exclaimed.

The adults started walking awkwardly over the bouncy floor towards the spiral staircase. "Come on," said the Doctor, helping the Master up with one hand, and his doppelganger with the other. He quickly led them through a few bouncy corridors to an inflatable slide that went all the way down to the ground floor and right out of the castle. 

"Oh, you are very good, Doctor," said the metacrisis.

"Why, thank you, Doctor," the Doctor replied.

"This is the wrong place to make me want to throw up," the Master warned. 

"Well, who's first?" the metacrisis asked, ignoring the Master.

"Oh, please, lead the way," the Master said.

"What -- GAHHHH!" said the metacrisis, as the Master pushed it over the edge. 

The Doctor sputtered at the Master as his double bounced and tumbled down the slide. 

"Oh come on, Doctor!" the Master said. "Your freak is fine. I'm still wearing your charming little bracelets, after all." 

The Doctor regarded him.

"I guess you're right," he said. "So I'm sure you won't mind this." 

Then the Doctor pushed him over the edge of the slide. 

As the Master tumbled down the bouncy slope, he felt his initial fury competing with an unexpected sense of exhilaration. He did so love making the Doctor fight dirty. 

The Master sped off the bottom of the slide and directly onto the metacrisis.

"Oi!" it complained from underneath him. 

"Hey," the Master said, "I didn't make you sit stupidly at the bottom of the slide, just waiting for someone to -- oooghf!" The Master was pitched forward as the Doctor barrelled into him from behind. 

They all lay for a moment in an undignified heap of limbs and slimly tailored suits. 

"Sorry," said the Doctor. 

"You're a great big dunce, do you know that?" the metacrisis said, voice muffled from somewhere underneath the Master's left armpit. It wriggled a bit until it could poke its face out from underneath the Master. "What's so funny?" it asked, huffily.

"Nothing," the Doctor responded, grinning like mad. He looked down at the two of them for a few more seconds, still grinning, then rolled off of the Master. 

" _Finally_ ," the Master said. He very nearly made a sarcastic remark like, _I can't imagine anything more tedious than being literally stuck between the two of you_ before he remembered himself and clamped his mouth firmly shut. 

He batted away the Doctor's proffered hand and stood up on his own, making a show of dusting off his suit and trying not to let his mind linger on the hint of warmth still clinging to the fabric from where he'd been pressed against the metacrisis. 

"So," the metacrisis said as the Doctor helped it up. "Who's going to sneak back inside and steal back our shoes?"

 

********

 

"Carnivals are great," said the metacrisis. At least that's what the Master thought it said. It was a bit difficult to tell, since its mouth was stuffed full of some kind of deep-fried food wrapped inside of another kind of deep fried food and then covered in powdered sugar. It swallowed. "Here, you should try some," it said, holding out the greasy offering toward the Master.

"What is it?" the Master asked. He couldn't tell if the interior was meat, vegetable, or something else entirely.

"I have no idea," the metacrisis said.

"Ooh, I wanna try," the Doctor interrupted, as though the fact that the food was a complete mystery made it all the more enticing. 

"Wait your turn," the Master snapped, and took a bite. It was... well, he still had no idea. But it was salty, sweet, chewy, crispy, and he thought he could feel his hearts slowing slightly as the fats entered his bloodstream. "Not bad," he said, and then popped the last bite into his mouth.

The Doctor glared. "Your evil is petty."

"Sorry, dear," the Master replied. "I'll be sure to try a bit harder later."

"It's time to put aside all petty evils, 'cause I've found where we're going next," the metacrisis said, looking very chuffed. It pointed at a shooting range booth.

"No," the Doctor said immediately.

"What? Why?"

"You know very well," the Doctor said with pointedly raised eyebrows.

"I know very well that you're a huge spoilsport," said the metacrisis childishly. 

"That's true," agreed the Master.

"See?!" exclaimed the metacrisis. "Come on, it's water pistols, there's nothing less harmful in the world, except sitting in place in a corner wearing a foam hat."

"You know how I feel about guns," the Doctor said, frowning.

"I know how you feel about being a terrible shot," the metacrisis countered.

"What?!" The Doctor looked scandalised.

"Aha," the Master said with a smirk. 

"Oh, that's it," said the Doctor. "I'll show you who's a terrible shot," he said, stalking towards the the booth.

And indeed he did.

"It's not fair," the Doctor said, coming in last for the fourth time. "I just love non-violence too much to be good at this."

The Master snorted. 

"Are you sure you don't just love losing?" the metacrisis asked as they started the next round, hitting a bullseye once again. 

"Very good shot," the Master complimented it.

The Doctor shot them both a petulant scowl. 

Besides the amusement factor of the Doctor's public humiliation, the Master found the scene rather fascinating. This thing was basically a bastardised, semi-human copy of the Doctor, but here it was, blatantly more skilled at something than its superior originator. It didn't seem to make sense.

The Master shot at one of the Doctor's targets, hitting the edge and making it spin in place. 

The metacrisis shot at the Doctor's spinning target, hitting it right in the centre and stopping it dead. 

"Okay, _that_ one was lucky," said the Master. 

"Ha!" the metacrisis said. 

"PLAYER NUMBER THREE, YOU HAVE NOW ADVANCED TO THE BLUE TAG PRIZE LEVEL," the robot in the booth informed them. 

The metacrisis whooped.

"PLAYER NUMBER TWO, YOU REMAIN IN THE YELLOW TAG PRIZE LEVEL."

"How exciting," the Master said. He tried to sneak a quick squirt of his watergun at the robot, but the water was turned off. Damn.

"PLAYER NUMBER ONE," the robot continued, "YOU HAVE YET TO ADVANCE TO ANY COLOUR PRIZE LEVEL. BUT EVERYONE IN THE FLAXIFORM CLUSTER IS A WINNER AT HEART. YOU MAY CHOOSE FROM ONE OF THESE THREE COMMEMORATIVE STICKERS." A drawer slid out from the robot's chest. 

"Ooh, I like that one!" the Doctor said. He picked up a sticker of a smiling cartoon strawberry saying, _"That was a BERRY good try!"_

"THAT IS AN EXCELLENT CHOICE, SIR OR MADAME OR OTHER," said the robot. 

"Thank you!" the Doctor said. He peeled the paper off the back of the sticker and then stuck it onto his chest. He looked at the Master. "What, you're not going to say anything?"

"Words honestly fail me at this moment," the Master said.

"Oh, good, I'll pick your prize for you, then," the Doctor said. "Carnival Barkotron 3000, player number two would like a pair of silly specs, please."

"THE ONES WITH THE GOOGLY EYES ON THE SPRINGS OR THE KALEIDOSCOPE SPECS?"

"Do you have a pair that shoots deadly lasers out from the lenses?" the Master asked. 

The Doctor elbowed him. "Googly eyes, please," he said. 

"Do not even _think_ of trying to put those on my face," the Master warned. 

"Of course not," the Doctor said, hastily switching the trajectory of his hands. 

"Uh uh," said the metacrisis.

"Oh, fine," huffed the Doctor. He put the specs on himself, and grinned as the googly eyes bounced up and down on their metal springs. The Master wondered if it was possible to die from second-hand embarrassment.

"All right, my turn!" said the metacrisis. "I'll have that," it said, pointing at a plush toy on the blue shelf. The robot's arms extended up and plucked the toy off of its perch, and then handed it to the metacrisis, which looked very pleased with itself. 

"I thought you hated teletubbies?" the Doctor asked it, his google eyes swaying as he turned his head to examine the toy. 

"Well, duh, _I_ do," it said. "But I didn't get it for myself." It handed the toy to the Master. "It's for you," it said to him, with a little smile.

The Master stared down at the little Tinky-Winky, and felt his fingers squeeze the softly fuzzed body. 

Then the metacrisis leaned close, and kissed him on the cheek. 

The Master stood frozen for a split second, and as he was a Time Lord, this was more than enough time for his senses to fully process the soft touch of warm lips on his skin, the heat of the hand balanced on his shoulder, the incremental narrowing of the Doctor's eyes behind his absurdly stupid toy spectacles. It was enough time to take in the smell of fried dough coming from the neighbouring booth, the smell of machine oil and damp plastic, the smell of artificial fruit-scented shaving cream, and underneath that, the faint odour of male human sweat. It was enough time for all of that information to be filed away into the appropriate areas of his brain, vivid and pristine, ready to be remembered and ruminated over anytime he might want to relive that split-second with perfect clarity and detail. 

Still, to the metacrisis, it must have seemed to be a nearly instantaneous reaction when the Master violently recoiled from it. He stared at it, nearly shaking with revulsion and indignation. 

"Sorry," the metacrisis muttered. "I thought you'd like it."

"You _presume_ ," the Master said, letting his words drip like slow venom, "an awful lot." 

The thing looked at him, and the Master wanted to wipe the pathetic bewilderment off of its face with his fist, but at that moment the abhorrent restraints on his wrists wouldn't even let his fingers curl.

"You've kissed a human before," it said to him. It wisely did not add, _You've kissed_ me _before._ "You were even married to one. It can't be that horrible, can it?"

This reference to Lucy gave the rage filling the Master an icy sheen. He stepped close to the metacrisis, until his face was only inches away from its own, until he could feel its hot, unnatural breath. He shoved the teletubby toy back into its arms.

"You," the Master hissed, his voice low and dangerous, "are not a human. You are an abomination. What I would _like_ , is to go back to the Valiant and crush the container that held the Doctor's hand, and then burn the remains until not even a single atom of DNA was left, just to prevent even the idea of you from coming into existence, you vile, wretched little perversion."

Neither one moved. The thing stared at him, expressionless, its fingers clutching at the plush toy with a white-knuckled grip. 

The Master heard the Doctor softly clear his throat, and glanced over to see him carefully fold up his silly specs and slip them into a breast pocket. 

"I think," he said, very carefully, "that we should go to another booth now." The Doctor gently plucked the toy from his doppelganger's hands. "I can carry this for you," he said, not making it clear to whom he was talking. Then he turned to the robot. "Thank you very much for a very fun game," he said to it. 

"YOU ARE ALL VERY WELCOME," said the robot in its same obliviously cheerful and tinny voice. "PLEASE TRY ALL OF OUR ENTERTAINMENTS. WE GUARANTEE EVERY GAME IS JUST AS FUN AS THIS ONE."

"Gosh," drawled the Master, "our evening is just guaranteed to sparkle, then, isn't it? How will we all survive such an extravagance of _fun_?" 

"IF YOU HAVE ANY HEALTH CONCERNS THERE ARE FOUR FIRST AID TENTS LOCATED AT CONVENIENT AREAS AROUND THE CARNIVAL," the robot replied. 

The Master let out a sarcastic snort of laughter. 

"You know, why don't we just go back to the TARDIS," the Doctor offered.

"No no _no_ ," the Master snarled, anger flaring back into his words. "You promised me a whole trip, and a whole trip is what I'm going to get. We're going to go play some more stupid, primitive games. We're going to go watch idiots pay to be stuck into unstable metal contraptions and shaken about until they puke all over each other. And we're going to do that until _I_ decide we're done. _Not you_."

The Doctor let out a slow breath.

"All right, Master," he said. He gestured toward the rest of the carnival. "Lead the way."

The Master turned and stalked away from the shooting booth. He heard the other two follow him. When he glanced back, he saw the Doctor had slipped his hand into his doppelganger's. The Doctor was looking at it, his expression soft and concerned. 

But the metacrisis was staring right at the Master, its eyes colder than an ice storm during second winter.


	3. Chapter 3

The mood was rather subdued at the next booth. The Master could almost feel the thing's hateful gaze boring into the back of his skull. The Master's aim faltered, then again, then again. One of the glowing holo-rings he tossed missed the table entirely, fizzing into nonexistence as it fell past the electro-magnetic generator's field. The Doctor was only marginally worse than he. The metacrisis threw its rings with almost ruthless efficiency and won a small, semi-aquatic lizard. It gave the prize away, transforming a child with even worse aim than the Doctor from tearful to overjoyed in moments. 

They played a few more games, though the only one the Master really paid attention to was the Whac-A-Mole, which proved to be wonderfully cathartic, until he accidentally broke the machine. 

"Sorry," the Doctor was saying to a peevish repair bot. 

"Doctor, it's a _robot_ , just leave it alone and let it fulfil its pointless existence," the Master said. 

"Repairing carnival games isn't pointless," the Doctor insisted. "It's a very important job if you're at a carnival." He patted the robot, which was floating around the Whac-A-Mole machine and poking at it with various instruments and sensors extending from its small metal carapace. It whirred a little more brightly at the compliment. "Well," the Doctor said, straightening up, "smashing small mechanical mammals with a mallet is out for the foreseeable future. Why don't we go up in the ferris wheel?"

The Master was just opening his mouth to vehemently refuse when the metacrisis interrupted.

"You two go do that," it said. "I'll be over there when you're done," it said, and briefly pointed at a drinks booth. It walked away before either of them could respond. The Doctor watched it go, looking a little deflated. 

The Master frowned. If anyone was going to make the Doctor unhappy, it should be him, not some jumped-up regenerative failure. 

"Come on then," the Master said. "Let's go up in a stupid metal cage and hope the health and safety inspections for this place weren't bought with too many bribes." 

 

********

 

"Remind me again why I agreed to get into this very obvious deathtrap?" the Master asked, giving their passeger capsule a dubious look. 

A grotty metal bar was pulled down with a screech that made the hairs on the back of the Master's neck stand on end. It locked into place over his and the Doctor's laps with a rusty metallic _thunk_. 

"You're a being of mysterious and inexplicable motivations, I suppose," the Doctor said, not looking at him. 

The Master was spared having to come up with a response to that by the sudden jolt of the ferris wheel starting to move. They sat in silence for several minutes as their capsule slowly ascended higher into the air. 

Dusk was just starting to creep across the sky. As the light faded, the dirt and grease and flaking paint began to recede, and the bright lights on every ride and tent began to sparkle and shine. The noise and smell of the crowds faded as they rose into the air. It wasn't peaceful, or beautiful, but at a remove the carnival lost some of its garishness, and if the Master imagined seeing it through the deluded eyes of the Doctor, he could almost see some of its charm. The Master glanced towards him. 

The Doctor was also gazing out at the carnival spreading out beneath them, a pensive cast to his features. Thinking of his little freak, no doubt, with its horrible dead eyes and its compulsion to always be touching, touching, touching -- touching the Master's face, his shoulders, his chest; grabbing his throat and coldly beating his head against a metal-plated floor, kissing him softly and promising terrible things.... The Master suppressed a shiver. He looked back at the Doctor's melancholic profile, and watched as his pulses beat steadily in his throat. 

"Well?" the Master finally asked, tired of the nearly peaceful quiet between them. 

The Doctor turned his head back toward him. "Well, what?" 

Frustratingly dense as always. The Master frowned. "Get your lecture out of the way, then," the Master said. "The one where you tell me I should play nice and not hurt your darling pet's feelings, that I'm better than that. Throw in a bit of angst, how we're all in this together, we're the only ones left, blah blah blah."

"No point in that, is there?" the Doctor said. "After all, I know what you're like." The Doctor looked back down at the carnival. "So does he." The Doctor straightened, his manner becoming nearly instantly cheerful again. "This is quite a ferris wheel, isn't it?" the Doctor said, in an abrupt change of subject. "It was the tallest in this quadrant for thirty-three years, then second tallest for three years, then tallest again after the previous tallest wheel unexpectedly collapsed. Well, I say 'unexpectedly', actually it was quite expected, I told the designers as much, but would they listen to a genius in a stove-pipe hat and an admittedly poorly done-up bow tie? No!"

"It was a particularly stupid hat," the Master said.

"Oi, it was brilliant!" the Doctor said. He looked thoughtful for moment. "Maybe I should haul it out. I keep meaning to try out some hats with this suit." He frowned, sadly. "They always crush my hair," he said. He gingerly touched the hair in question, as if making sure it was still perfect, down to the follicle.

"We are not going to have a conversation about the relative merits and demerits of your various hair-styling products, Doctor." The Doctor closed his mouth, obviously trying to look as if he hadn't been about to do just that. "Why don't you tell me how a Time Lord is so absolutely terrible at a few games of hand-eye coordination, while his little human clone is so very good?"

"I've got great aim," the Doctor insisted. He caught the Master's look. "What, I do! I just don't like guns. Anyway, I'm not the only one whose aim needed a little work," the Doctor pointed out. 

"The only way your aim would have only needed 'a little' work is if the Hand of Omega was guiding it," the Master said. 

"Hmmph," the Doctor replied. His expression softened. "Well... Donna had a good eye. And she was brilliant at darts. So, the other Doctor probably got a bit of that from her too."

 _Donna_. The Master had heard the name a few times now. Enough to know that she had been one of the Doctor's pet humans, and that she must have been the human catalyst for the biological metacrisis that resulted in the Doctor's doppelganger. 

And, that she must now be dead. 

It was the inevitable result of a metacrisis, and one of a whole host of reasons that they had been both taboo and highly illegal on Gallifrey. Back when Gallifrey had existed. 

"Donna once won me from a pack of Wojan pirates with a game of darts," the Doctor said. His mouth quirked up. "Plus a pair of anti-grav boots, a cask of Saurian brandy, and a tin whistle. So, yeah, I suppose the other Doctor might have inherited some of his skill from her." He made a face. "And his taste in magazines. Atrocious."

"Ah," the Master said. He felt as if a blindfold he hadn't realised he was wearing had just been taken away. 

"What, you think I'm not giving _Heat_ magazine the appreciation it deserves?"

"No, you idiot," the Master said. "Now I understand your fixation with your freakish double. All this time I thought it was your natural narcissism, magnified by your perpetual obsession with humanity, but it's more than that. It's all you have left of this precious Donna, after you inadvertently killed her with your botched regeneration."

The Doctor's face looked like it could have been made of stone. 

"What's it like to search for the little, corrupted bits of her that are left while looking into the eyes of her murderer?" the Master asked. 

He watched the Doctor's mouth twist, ever so slightly. The Master took a slow, deep breath, as if he could breathe in the scent of the Doctor's pain, as if he could taste it on his tongue and feel it dissolve into his own bloodstream, as if the Doctor's pain could be just as nourishing and necessary as oxygen itself. 

"It's not like you to be jealous of a human," the Doctor said, shattering the Master's reverie.

"What?" The Master just stared, completely taken aback. 

"Well, actually, I guess it... is," the Doctor amended. "Sort of one of your standard personality quirks. I have to admit, I've occasionally even found it charming -- against my better judgement, of course. But it just seems petty, when the human is me. Mostly me. Well, partly me. I wasn't jealous when you had a human wife," the Doctor pointed out. "So this just seems a bit silly, really."

It was the Master's mouth that twisted now, into an angry sneer. 

"So it really doesn't bother you, then?" he asked. "Being reminded every time you see it, of what you did? That it only exists because you killed a person you loved?"

"I've killed a lot of people I loved," the Doctor said, quietly. "And worse. That's not his fault."

The Master regarded him for a long moment.

"You're actually mad, aren't you?" he finally said. 

"Ohhh, maybe," the Doctor replied. "But I don't hold it against you, why should you hold it against me?"

"I'm your prisoner, fitted with mind-controlling shackles, forced to follow you and your disgusting freak around like a slave, and that's _not_ holding it against me?"

"I haven't made you eat out of a dog bowl or listen to me sing along to awful millennial dance music, have I?" the Doctor asked. His expression was innocent, but there was a hint of something darker underneath. There were so many things the Master had done to the Doctor during that year on the Valiant. Some of them had even disturbed the Master himself. Making the Doctor eat out of a dog bowl seemed worshipful in comparison.

The Master scowled. "Yes, yes, message received." 

"What message?" the Doctor asked, his eyebrows arranged in their most guileless position.

The Master only scowled harder and looked away. Their capsule was ever so slowly making its way back down toward the ground, bringing the noises and smells of the carnival back into focus. 

"Have you thought about where you'd like to go on your trip?" the Doctor asked. "We could always arrange a visit with Lucy. Though I suppose she might not be too keen on that, seeing as the last time we saw her she shot you in the stomach."

The Master turned back towards the Doctor, disbelieving.

"Are you serious?" the Master asked.

"Sorry," the Doctor said. "You're right, bad idea. Probably like asking if you want to visit Chang Lee -- "

"Doctor, haven't you wondered _why I'm alive_?" the Master asked through gritted teeth. "Who do you think resurrected me?"

"You're always turning up after you die. I didn't exactly question it, to be honest. I mean, I did, but --"

"Lucy is dead," the Master said, cutting off the Doctor's rambling. "My resurrection didn't go exactly as planned. She died so I could live." He looked at the Doctor. "And I didn't get a bargain-basement copy of her as a keepsake."

Before the Doctor had a chance to say anything, their capsule ground to screechy halt. A couple of very handsy teenagers were waiting impatiently for them to disembark. The Master did so as slowly as possible, just to annoy them.

"Have fun, kids," the Master told them as they were strapped in. "Don't worry, apparently that snapping noise you hear when you get to the top is completely natural." He smiled and waved as their suddenly ashen faces started to recede.

"That wasn't very nice," the Doctor said, mildly. 

"I'm not a nice person," the Master replied. 

He walked away from the ferris wheel.


	4. Chapter 4

The Master was starting to wonder if some super-powered being from the dawn of time had simply sucked every single person in the whole of the carnival into one cramped tent, liberally dousing them all with sweat and sour-smelling alcohol, and then dunking them into sloppy buckets of hair styling products in the process. 

"It's hopeless, Doctor," the Master said. They were slowly, oh so very slowly, making their way through the crowds of people filling the drinks tent, searching for the Doctor's pet. The Master wouldn't have minded so much if he'd only been able to put a little elbow into their journey, but his stupid bracelets kept his body polite. Thankfully, it had no control over his mouth. "Your freak probably drowned in one of those giant boots of piss masquerading as beer," he continued, grimacing at a particularly ugly plastic beverage container. "It was asphyxiated by a miasma of cheap perfume. It was crushed by a group of slabby mouthbreathers all wearing the same ugly shirt." He grabbed the Doctor's arm in a melodramatic, but polite, grip. "We have to save ourselves. We can't let its sacrifice be in vain --."

"Oh, there he is," the Doctor said, cutting off the Master's impending eulogy. 

"Damn." The Master peered through the throngs of people. "I don't see it," he complained. "Are you sure it wasn't swallowed whole by a hungry patron with a taste for especially stringy meat?"

"He's right over there - next to the disco space buffalo." He pointed, and the Master saw that he was correct -- there was a decidedly disco-looking space buffalo replica. And next to it was the Doctor's doppelganger, sitting quite close to a girl with cheaply dyed hair and a very tight halter top. 

"Why does spending so much time with you result in constantly being exposed to the stupidest sentences?" the Master grumbled as they made their way towards the disco space buffalo. He watched the metacrisis lean close to the girl, his arm slipping behind her, and say something that startled a short laugh out of her. The Master's eyes narrowed.

"Hello," the Doctor said, as they stood in front of his double's tiny table. The flashing, blinking lights from the space buffalo glinted off the numerous empty plastic cups covering the table's surface. 

"Oh, hullo," the metacrisis said, looking up at his double with an overly friendly smile. He took a gulp out of the half-empty cup he was holding in one hand. "How was the ferris wheel? Loads of fun, was it?"

"Oh yeah. Loads," the Doctor replied.

"Hi," the girl interrupted, looking the Doctor and the Master up and down. She took a drag from a small electronic vaporiser. "John, you didn't say you had a twin brother," she said to the metacrisis.

"Oh, 'John' and I aren't exactly identical," the Doctor said, giving his double an indecipherable look. He nodded at the cup of fizzy blue liquid the girl was holding. "You sure you're old enough to drink that?" he asked her. She did look quite young, despite her studied look of boredom, though she was certainly old enough to notice the way her cleavage pushed up out of her halter top. 

"You sure you're old enough to walk around unchaperoned with those googly specs sticking out of your pocket?" the girl countered. The Doctor looked down and saw that one googly eye had escaped, the spring bouncing slightly as he moved. 

"Er," he said. He tucked it back inside of his jacket. 

The metacrisis tried to stifle a snort of laughter, not entirely successfully. It leaned close to the girl again, uncurling one finger from its cup to point at her. "Nadyan is studying mechanical design on Moonbase Helt!" it said. "She's very funny, and smart, and has some very nice friends...." It looked around, as if just noticing that they were gone and that it and the girl had been sitting by themselves. "Well, I thought they were nice, but it looks like they left you all alone here with me."

"I think they're _very_ nice," Nadyan said, drily. It grinned back at her. 

"Am I going to be forced to spend the rest of the night watching your disgusting little mating displays?" the Master snapped. The metacrisis gave him a dark look, then waved a dismissive hand at him.

"I gave you two nearly an hour to snog to your hearts' content up in that ferris wheel --"

" _What?_ " the Master snarled.

"-- So I'm sure you can give me five minutes of nice conversation with my new friend here."

The Master's hands twitched in that telltale way they had when his psychokinetic bracelets had to restrain a sudden impulse. The metacrisis saw it and didn't bother to restrain his own little smirk, which only served to further enrage the Master.

"You listen to me, you contemptible piece of --"

The Doctor shoved himself between the Master and the metacrisis. 

"Hey!" he said, interrupting the Master's diatribe. "It's been very nice to meet you, Nadyan, but my brother and I have to... go... do a... thing. An important thing, very important, we should both be there, I'm sure you understand, and you should really try the ferris wheel, it's got a great view, very peaceful...." He gave the metacrisis a pleading look.

The metacrisis sighed and stood up.

"Oh well, looks like my friends aren't quite as nice as yours," it said to Nadyan. It drained its cup and set it back on the table. "Moonbase Helt. I'll remember it."

"It's mostly pretty boring, but the annual Frost Bloom is really something to see." She flicked a couple of strands of pink hair out of her eyes. "Hey," she said, finally cracking a slight smile. "Let your brother know I think he's pretty handsome. Even if his taste in friends is kinda shit."

"Sure," it said, with a cheeky grin. 

The Doctor grabbed the metacrisis by its arm and pulled it toward the edge of the tent, while the Master followed, fuming. The metacrisis pulled its arm from the Doctor's grip, and gave him a sour look, before turning around and blowing Nadyan a final kiss, just as they exited the tent. 

"What the hell was that?" the Doctor asked, as they walked.

"What the hell was _what_?" the thing answered. "I'm not allowed to flirt anymore, am I?"

The Doctor frowned. "She was a bit young, don't you think?"

"Oh, really, are we going there, now?" said the metacrisis. "She wasn't any younger than _Rose_ was, when you met her."

The Doctor shuffled uncomfortably. "That was different --"

"Was it?" the metacrisis said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why don't you explain that to _me_ , Spaceman? The person who has _your memories_ , huh?"

"Will you two bloody well _shut up_?" the Master shouted. "There is literally nothing more tedious in the whole of the seven universes than listening to you argue about your human female conquests!"

Silence descended immediately. The Doctor looked abashed. The metacrisis looked baleful. 

The Master wished they'd stayed in the tent long enough to get at least one drink. 

 

********

 

By the time they found themselves sitting on a bench, watching what must have been the galaxy's worst juggling act, the Master wasn't sure who was in a fouler mood -- himself, or the metacrisis. The Doctor's response was to become almost aggressively cheerful, telling bad jokes and rambling on about carnival facts about which the Master didn't care and the metacrisis must already have known. The one time the metacrisis had nearly cracked a smile was when an unfortunate mime, attracted by the Doctor's desperate attempts at cheer, had approached them and started to mirror the Master's movements, until the Master had smiled and mimed tying a noose and putting it around his own neck, at which point the mime nervously pulled himself away on his invisible rope. 

"This is terrible," the Master said, as one of the jugglers on the improvised stage dropped a club. Again.

"No, it's not," the Doctor protested. Unconvincingly. 

"It's... pretty bad," said the metacrisis.

"Okay, I've seen better," the Doctor admitted. "But they're trying! That's worth something, isn't it?"

"No," said the Master. 

The Doctor looked over to the metacrisis, who said, "Um."

Then the jugglers brought out some unlit torches. 

"Oh, this just got a lot more interesting," the Master said, with relish. 

"They're not going to --" The Doctor was interrupted by the whoosh of a torch being set on fire. "They are," he said.

"Wow," said the metacrisis. Bystanders were wisely backing away.

"Maybe they'll be more focused with fire?" the Doctor offered. Ever the optimist.

"I know _I'm_ more focused now," the Master said, as one of the jugglers almost set his own hat on fire.

"Wow," said the metacrisis, again.

"Oh for the love of -- gah!" the Doctor exclaimed, suddenly leaping onto the stage and catching one of the flaming torches just before it hit a juggler in the face. The crowd let out a sound that was half relief and half disappointment. Then the Doctor caught the next torch, and the next. "Folks," he said, his voice raised to carry across the audience as he juggled the flaming torches, "don't try this at home. Or possibly anywhere," he continued, giving the jugglers a pointed glance. "Don't worry, I'm a professional. Well, sort of. I did once literally juggle for my life."

"Of course you did," the Master muttered.

The Doctor effortlessly toed one of the discarded clubs lying on the stage into the air and caught it, incorporating it into the complicated pattern of flying torches. The crowd oohed, and there was even a smattering of applause. He grinned. 

"Oh great," the Master groaned. "Now we'll be here for days." He glanced over at the metacrisis, and was dismayed to find it looking up at the stage with a kind of begrudging affection. 

The Doctor saw it too. He grinned at the metacrisis, and then tossed one of the torches up -- and caught it on the end of his shoe. He balanced the torch on the end of his foot while he juggled the other two and the club. "C'mon, c'mon!" he admonished the crowd, who obliged with applause and a few cheers. "That's better!" he said, then kicked the torch on his foot high into the air. He did a quick spin, caught it behind his back, tossed it back into the air, spun back round, and caught it again, all the while keeping the other torches spinning. The crowd went wild. 

The metacrisis couldn't help but laugh. "Show-off!" it yelled, but it joined in the applause.

The Doctor gave the metacrisis a wink, then called out to the jugglers. "Oi, have you lot got any knives?"

The Master felt a stab of hatred so powerful it almost made him feel sick. 

"What is the point of this?" the Master asked. 

"I dunno." The metacrisis shrugged. "People like juggling --"

"No," the Master interrupted. His voice was low, dangerous. "What is the point of _this_. Of me, being trotted round like a reluctant pet, being forced to watch the two of you and your revolting public displays. Being shackled," he said, looking down at his bracelets, letting his hands flex into fists. "Being _kept_. What is the point of that?"

The metacrisis looked at him, its expression cool. 

"We can't let you loose to cause chaos and destruction," it said. "You've killed too many people."

The Master gritted his teeth.

"Then why not kill _me_?"

"I already told you," it said, its eyes dark and serious. "You're a gift. A gift for him." It looked up at the stage, where the Doctor was now juggling knives on a two meter tall unicycle, grinning and cracking jokes and completely unaware of the conversation going on below him. "I remember what it was like to be him. To be completely, utterly alone, in the entire universe." It shivered. "I've got a human body. A human life-span. I'll only be around for another few decades -- if I'm lucky. And then, he'll be alone again. Forever." Its face crumpled into a mixture of pain and adoration. "I couldn't stand to let that happen."

The Master felt an unpleasant tingle of awareness run through him, making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. 

"And then one day, he felt you. Just the faintest glimmer. Here," it said, tapping its forehead. "So I found you. I set up the plot with the Nestenes to lure you out. And now, someday when I'm gone, he won't be alone. Because he'll have you." The thing looked at him. "Does that answer your question?"

The Master stared at the metacrisis. 

_decades_

_forever_

He took a shaky step back from it. 

Then, he turned and ran.


	5. Chapter 5

The Master's hearts were pounding so hard in his chest, he could barely hear the carnival over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. He ran and ran, past rides, past games, past bands, he ran until even his respiratory bypass was starting to give out. He ducked behind a row of tents and saw a rickety table covered in a filthy cloth. He scrambled underneath it, and then crouched in place, pressing his head into his clammy, trembling hands. 

He wasn't sure how far he'd run. He wasn't even sure what direction he'd run from. Or where he was running to. He should avoid the TARDIS. Avoid people. He clutched at his wrists. He needed to get these restraints off. He couldn't do anything with them on. He needed to find a way off of this planet. At least out of this godforsaken carnival. There must be the equivalent of a car park. He could steal a vehicle. Maybe a starhopper. He could disappear. He knew how to lay low. He was the patient one, not the Doctor. Except there was the metacrisis. He honestly didn't know what it was capable of. Or the Doctor, anymore. He'd been right. The Doctor was completely unhinged. And so was his freak. Calm, calm, calm. Right. He needed to get away. He pulled at his restraints again. No, he could steal a vehicle without hurting anyone, he was clever enough for that. He was a bloody genius, after all. The restraints could wait -- unless they had tracking devices installed. Fuck. _Fuck_. Of course they did. There was no way that they wouldn't have. Think. Think. Think.

The Master took a deep breath and crawled out from under the table, which he promptly upended. He yanked at one of the foldable metal legs, wrenching it back and forth until it finally snapped off. Good. Now he needed to find a game machine.

There was one nearby. He lurked behind a tarp, watching two children who were playing on the game machine, and flexing his fingers over and over on the metal piping in his hands. After a few minutes the girls finally lost. One kid kicked the machine, and the other said, "This is so lame. Let's go back to Death Canyon." They walked away. The Master watched the machine for a full minute, waiting in case anybody else came to play on it, but it stayed quiet. He walked up to it and swung the metal pipe as hard as he could into the glass screen, which shattered. Then he slipped back behind his tarpaulin. 

He heard the whir of the repair bot before he saw it, and readied his metal piping. As soon as it flew up to the machine, clicking disapprovingly, he stepped out. The bot spun around, whirring and chirruping in a distinctly alarmed manner. Maybe it recognised him. But it didn't have time to do anything else before the Master smashed his pipe into it, the blow so savage his pipe bent with the force of it. The bot dropped instantly to the ground, twitching and glitching. The Master hit it again, and again. The only thing that saved him from smashing it to complete smithereens was the fact that he needed some of its parts. 

He knelt down on the ground beside the bot. It was still letting out feeble whirs, but he ignored that and used the narrow end of his pipe to pry open the bot's casing. It chirruped twice more, before falling finally silent and still. He worked feverishly, pulling at the sharp metal and plastic components, trying to release the tools that might help him cut the horrible restraints from his wrists. His hands were bleeding, making the work that much more slippery and difficult. He wiped them off on his trousers, then swore when a panel inside the bot sparked and burnt him. 

"C'mon," he muttered, "c'mon, c'mon...."

He freed a miniature lasercutter from the wreckage, and tested it on a piece of the bot itself. It cut slowly, but with incredible precision. Perfect. He turned it carefully onto his wrist. The restraints were incredibly thin, he didn't want to cook his own flesh. He started the laser, grimacing every time he hand slipped just that tiny bit and the laser beam cut into his skin. After a minute, his wrist was covered in tiny burns, and the bracelet was still pristine. He threw the laser away with an oath. He was running out of time.

The Master plunged his hands back into the bot's innards. The only other thing to try was the miniature rotating saw. After another minute he had most of it free, but couldn't fully remove it, so he had to hold his wrist at an awkward, uncomfortable angle. It was difficult to see what he was doing. He started the saw, and brought it gingerly up to his restraint. He heard it hit the metal of his bracelet with a terrible whine and he flinched, making the saw cut into the flesh of his wrist. He swore again. He wiped the sweat from his brow and rearranged his hands on the saw. Blood was dripping down his wrist, to mingle with the blood slicking his fingers. He carefully pressed the saw against the bracelet, listening to the whine of metal on metal. It rose in pitch, higher and higher as he pressed harder, and harder. If his hand slipped now, the saw would go right through his bone. He pressed even harder, then pulled back and looked at the bracelet.

As good as new.

He could hear his heavy breathing whistling through his gritted teeth. He threw the bot's carcass onto the ground with disgust, then quickly picked it back up. 

He couldn't cut through the restraints. But he _could_ cut through his wrists.

Before he had a chance to mentally list the many reasons that wouldn't be a very good plan, he heard heavy boots thumping towards him. A couple of middle-aged security officers ran around the corner, already winded. The kind who were a bit more used to dealing with drunk teenagers and petty thieves than cold-blooded, murderous psychopaths. The Master snarled at them, hefting the bot's casing. It would be the work of moments to slice their throats open with the saw, take their weapons, and flee. 

And then his arms locked in place, as the restraints kicked in and kept him from swinging the blade into their flesh. 

He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and turned to run, flinging the casing out of harm's way. He only made it a few feet before one of the guards tackled him, bringing him down with her greater weight. 

"What's all this then?" the guard panted. She held the Master down, and to the Master's mounting terror, he found couldn't do anything to stop her. As hard as he tried, he couldn't even wiggle. He chest heaved with the effort, but he couldn't move even a muscle. 

"Please," he begged, "please, please let me go, let me go." His eyes were watering with desperation and fear.

The guard looked down at him. 

"Think we've got a bit of a nutter here, Ravik. Help me get some cuffs on him."

The Master laughed, and even he heard the hysteria in it. Didn't they know he was already chained?

Ravik pulled his cuffs off of his belt and knelt down beside them. As soon as the first guard took her weight off of him, the Master started to scrabble away, dragging his bloodied hands across the rough gravel of the ground. She grabbed his legs, and his body froze once again. It was the most sickening, terrifying sensation he had ever felt.

"Oh please," he said, his voice muffled now by gravel and dirt. "Don't let them take me again," he begged, voice breaking. He sounded pathetic. He was pathetic. He didn't care. He couldn't face an eternity of this. He couldn't. "Let me go, please, please, _please_."

"Hey, it's all right, mate," Ravik said, patting his shoulder as the first guard pulled the Master's wrists together behind his back. "We're not going to hurt you. We're gonna help you."

The Master choked back another bitter laugh as he was helped gently to his feet. 

"That's what they all say."

 

********

 

The Master stared blankly at the silent video playing on repeat on the security screen. Grainy footage of his face, recorded by the repair bot in its dying moments, as he savagely smashed it onto the ground, and then beat it with a pipe. The video started to break up as the pipe was shoved inside the bot, quite close to the camera, and the pipe started prying the bot apart, until the video glitched spectacularly, and then blacked out. Then it started again.

He was sat on a clean, white camp bed in one of the four conveniently located medical tents. He could hear the metacrisis behind him talking in a low voice to the head of security, who made occasional sympathetic noises. 

The Doctor walked up and stood next to the bed. The Master could feel the heavy weight of the Doctor's eyes on him.

"It looks like those hurt," the Doctor said. 

The Master didn't acknowledge him, just kept watching the video. He heard the Doctor move away. A tap turned on, and the sound of water filling a plastic bucket was next. A few cabinet doors opened and closed as the Doctor searched for supplies, before the tap was turned off. He set the tub and his other paraphernalia next to the Master on the camp bed. A clean white cloth was dipped into the water.

"Here, lift your head up," the Doctor told him, tilting his jaw with a gentle hand. The Master kept his eyes averted, but let the Doctor wash away the blood and dirt from his face. The Doctor took one of his hands, and cleaned away the blood and gravel, then rubbed ointment on the burns around his bracelet. The Master watched as the Doctor cradled the Master's hand in one of his own, and with the other, carefully wielded a protoplaser to heal his cuts and bruises. Then he did the same to the Master's other hand. 

As he slowly worked his way to each of the Master's fingertips, the Master asked, "Is this what you did after your freak bashed my head in on the satellite control station?"

The Doctor's hand hesitated, but only for a moment. 

"There we go," he said, ignoring the Master's question. He set the protoplaser down. "All done." He laced his fingers through the Master's, and gave his freshly healed flesh a soft squeeze. 

The Master looked down at their joined hands.

"I was going to cut my hands off," he said. "To get away from you."

He felt the Doctor's hand tense, ever so slightly, inside his own.

"The restraints wouldn't have let you," the Doctor said, quietly. 

The Master felt sick to his stomach. He pulled his hand from the Doctor's, curling his fingers into a fist that he held up to his own chest.

"You think I'm such a monster," he said. He finally looked up at the Doctor's face, into his sad, dark eyes. "What does that make you?" He looked over at the metacrisis. "And what does it make _that_?"

The Doctor didn't answer that question either.

The metacrisis spent a few more minutes with the head of security. Finally, it shook her hand, nodding and saying, "Thank you, thank you so, so much," again and again. It walked over to where the Master sat on his camp bed.

"Well, they're not going to press charges against Harry here," it said, indicating the Master, "as long as we leave now, and leave a credit routing number so we can pay for the damages to their property. Captain Sarjan was very understanding, about Harry's, er... condition, since it was so evident from Harry's interactions with the security guards that he's no threat to people." It paused, as if waiting for the Master to contradict it. 

The Doctor cleared his throat. "Right," he said. "When can we leave?"

"As soon as we get your credit number," Captain Sarjan told him. The Doctor started rooting through his pockets for a credit stick that would work in the current century. "Um," he said, chagrined. "Just, give me about... ten minutes. I've got to get it from our, ah, vehicle." He flashed an apologetic look at the metacrisis, and slipped out of the tent. 

"He'll be right back," the metacrisis told Captain Sarjan. "I'll just stay here with my brother-in-law."

The Captain nodded, giving them both an annoyingly knowing look of sympathy, and then retreated. The metacrisis sat gingerly upon the edge of the Master's camp bed, careful not to encroach too closely on his space. They sat in silence for a few minutes, as the Master continued to watch the looping security video.

"So," the metacrisis said, finally breaking the silence. "What's so fascinating about this video, then?"

"I'm imagining that repair bot is your skull," the Master answered.

"...Right," the metacrisis said. It sighed.

The Doctor made it back to the tent in about a half an hour, complete with a credit stick flush with cash. If Captain Sarjan noticed he was wearing a different shirt and tie, she didn't mention it.

"Thanks again," the metacrisis said, as they left the tent.

The Master took a breath of fresh night air, and promised himself that the first thing he was going to do when he gained his freedom was to come back to this carnival and raze it to the ground.


	6. Chapter 6

Linear time didn't really exist in the vortex, but the Master supposed that he must have spent at least two hours surreptitiously watching the Doctor from one of the upper balconies of the library. It wasn't that he'd planned to. In fact, he'd gone to the library to get the hell away from the other two occupants of the TARDIS. But at some point while the Master was browsing through one of the art sections, drawing rude scribbles over the reproductions of the great classics of 17th century Alpha Centaurian sculpture, the Doctor had walked in.

The Master had his mental shields so high and tight that the Doctor hadn't even noticed there was another Time Lord in the room. The Master had ducked down on his balcony between two stacks of unshelved books and watched while the Doctor had paced between shelves for about ten minutes before finally sitting down on a large antique sofa with a long sigh. The Master had watched him read the first one and a half books from some romance trilogy, build a crystal sonar radio from junk in his pockets, play thirteen games of solitaire, and then finish the last half of his second book, which he promptly declared to be "Absolute rubbish!". Then he read the third book in the series. 

All of which had been insanely boring, but the Master had watched anyway, instead of just leaving the library and finding another part of the TARDIS to vandalise. The fact that the Doctor didn't know he was there meant the Doctor couldn't stop him, and that fact was the first taste of power the Master had had in weeks. He wanted to savour it, meagre and pathetic as it was.

Now the Doctor was writing in a small notebook he'd pulled out of one his jacket pockets. He was lounging in his shirtsleeves, the jacket itself having been tossed onto the afghan that was draped over the back of the sofa. One long leg was tucked underneath him, while the other stretched out to sit on a milk crate that was serving as a coffee table. 

Then the door to the library opened. The Master couldn't see it from his vantage point, but he could hear it. He tensed, knowing the only person it could be. He saw the Doctor look up.

"Hullo?" the Doctor said, the question clear in his voice. 

"Hello, Spaceman," he heard the metacrisis say. There was the sound of the door being quietly closed.

"Oh, I thought it might be... well, you know." The Doctor trailed off as his doppelganger came into view and settled down on the opposite end of the sofa, laying its feet on the Doctor's lap in a familiar manner.

"Nope, just me." It was clad in pyjama bottoms and a flimsy t-shirt, and even from his vantage point in the balcony, the Master could see it looked exhausted. 

"Bad dream?" the Doctor asked, giving his double a discerning look over his reading glasses. The metacrisis shrugged. "You want me to help you sleep?" 

The metacrisis shook its head.

"Nah, I'd rather just... sit here with you. For a bit."

The Doctor's mouth quirked, affectionately.

"Sure thing, Earthboy," he said, reaching out and lacing his fingers through his double's hand. 

On the balcony, the Master's own hand curled into a fist, so tight that he could feel the nails of his fingers dig sharply into the newly regenerated skin of his palms.

"You know, you almost made up for how bloody awful you were at water pistols with that show-off juggling," the metacrisis said. The Doctor positively beamed at the back-handed compliment. So they were just as disgusting in private as they were in front of him, the Master concluded. Great.

"I was going to have you come up on stage and play the spoons while I ate a sword," the Doctor said. The metacrisis gave him a little laugh. 

"I haven't actually played the spoons in this body," it said. "I might have bollocksed it up."

"It's like riding a bike," the Doctor said.

The metacrisis gave him a look.

"Don't you remember that time in Space Amsterdam? You and Rose were jetting off on your little bikes, and I wobbled straight into a stone wall."

"Well, yeah, but you were brilliant after that," the Doctor insisted.

"Only you would describe nearly falling into a canal as 'brilliant'."

The Master silently agreed. 

The Doctor fiddled with his notebook. "So," he finally said. "You think when it's your turn, your trip's going to be to Moonbase Helt, then?"

"I dunno," the metacrisis said, thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought about it." It gave a little half shrug. "Maybe."

"She really is pretty young," the Doctor said.

"And we really are in a time machine," the metacrisis pointed out. "If i want my trip to be a visit with 63-year-old Nadyan in her vegetable garden, we could do that too."

"Somehow it didn't look like you two were talking about vegetables," the Doctor said. 

"We weren't," it agreed with a smug little smile. The smile faded. "You know, sometimes it's just... nice. To have someone look at me, and not see a copy of you."

"Oh," the Doctor said, realisation dawning across his features. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't," the metacrisis warned. 

The Doctor opened his mouth to say something, but was quelled by a single look from his double.

"I don't want to talk about Rose," it said. 

"Okay," the Doctor acquiesced. The metacrisis sighed and rubbed its face with its free hand. "You know, you didn't have to come today," the Doctor said. His double pulled its hand down to give the Doctor a dark look.

"Of course I did," it replied. "You're not the only one who loves him."

The Master's stomach turned at this strange, vile declaration.

The Doctor looked at his double's tired, miserable face for a few moments, and then put his notebook to the side. He took his specs off and slipped them into one of his jacket pockets. "Come up here," he said, with a little jerk of his head. "Come on," he coaxed when the metacrisis hesitated. He shifted so he was lengthwise down the sofa, jostling his double in the process, until he'd cleared a space on his cushion. The metacrisis sighed, and moved up to settle next to him. 

The Doctor put his arm around it, and pressed a soft kiss against its forehead. 

"You're not wrong," he told it, very quietly. "You're not a copy. You're not a freak."

"I know," it said, voice small. 

"Good," the Doctor said. He gave it another kiss on the forehead, and let his lips linger against its skin. 

The Master didn't even dare to breathe. He watched as the Doctor trailed his lips down his double's face, to press another kiss against its cheek. And then as his lips trailed even lower, until they pressed gently against its mouth. It closed its eyes for just a moment.

"You don't have to --" it began, voice low and thready.

"I know," the Doctor murmured. He kissed it again. "I want to."

A grotesque thrill ran through the Master as the metacrisis finally submitted, letting the Doctor open up its mouth with his tongue. The Doctor cupped its face in his hands, kissing it long and deep, and it responded in kind, its own hands reaching around to trace slow circles along the Doctor's back. The Master let out a slow, silent breath, and flexed his fingers. He looked down and saw blood welling from a tiny scratch in his palm -- his fingernail had cut it. He'd have to trim his nails. They were ragged and sharp from scrabbling in the rocks and gravel in his desperate attempt to escape from the two beings beneath him, who said they loved him, but kept him shackled and chained, and then consoled each other when he refused to thank them for the privilege. 

He looked back down at them. The Doctor had moved his hands underneath the thing's t-shirt, rucking it up to reveal a good deal of the slim torso. The metacrisis was slowly unbuttoning the Doctor's shirt, leaving worshipful kisses along his neck and collarbone. The Doctor let one of his hands trail down its body, petting the soft hair on its belly before slipping beneath the waistband of its pyjama bottoms. It let out a sudden, strangled groan, burying its head into the crook of the Doctor's neck while its body writhed at his touch.

The Master watched, and licked the blood off of his palm with one long stroke of his tongue.

The Doctor murmured something into his double's ear that the Master couldn't make out, though he could just hear the metacrisis reply with a breathy, " _Yes_." The Master couldn't help his own little shiver in response -- it wasn't really the Doctor's voice sounding so needy and breathless, but it _sounded_ like it was. His muscles tensed as he watched the Doctor kiss his way down the metacrisis's chest and stomach, knowing what was about to happen.

He could end this at any moment. All he would have to do would be to clear his throat, and the debauchery happening below him would instantly cease, as the Doctor and his thing looked up and saw they weren't alone. As they realised the Master had heard all of their little endearments and pathetic consolations. He imagined interrupting them right now, just as the Doctor was lowering the metacrisis's pyjama bottoms, pulling them carefully past its hot, human flesh. He could picture the Doctor's face, a perfect blend of surprise and embarrassment and shame at being caught out in the middle of something so tawdry. 

He could picture the metacrisis's face too. He suppressed another shiver.

The Master stayed perfectly still, and perfectly silent, as he watched the Doctor kiss the base of his double's cock, before licking his way to the tip. He watched the thing run a shaky hand through its own hair, staring down at the Doctor expectantly, arousal clouding its eyes and flushing its face. He watched its eyes close and its mouth fall open as the Doctor finally took it into his mouth. He listened to it make the most incredible sound, half torture, half pleasure, the kind of sound he often fantasised about forcing out of the Doctor; a perfect, gorgeous sound, _that was even in the Doctor's voice_ , and the Master had to close his own eyes for just a moment, to make sure he didn't follow suit and ruin everything. 

Because he'd decided he wasn't going to interrupt this, he wasn't going to stop it. He was going to watch every second of it, drink it in, savour it, and _keep_ it. Not out of fear of what the metacrisis would do if it found out, though there was that, but because they had taken away everything from him, every single thing, and now he was going to take something special and precious from them, and they would never even know it. 

The metacrisis had tangled one hand in the Doctor's hair, its hips flexing instinctively as the Doctor sucked it off. Its hand slipped down to the nape of the Doctor's neck, and the Master heard the Doctor groan around its cock as it started to stroke his sensitive skin. The metacrisis chuckled and then arched up with a sharp gasp as the Doctor did something with his mouth that the Master couldn't see. 

"Oh god," it breathed, and it was so strange the hear that human objuration in the Doctor's voice. "Oh god, oh god, oh _god_...."

A thin sheen of sweat covered its skin, highlighting the dip of its collarbone, the bob of its adam's apple as it took each shuddering breath. Its hair was mussed, the fringe sticking damply to its forehead. Its shirt was still rucked up, so the Master could see its stomach muscles tense and relax with each trick of the Doctor's tongue. The Doctor moved his head, and suddenly the Master could see its cock thrusting steadily in and out of his mouth, his lips swollen and wet, and his expression positively beatific. The Doctor held its hips in place as he slowly took its cock deeper, and deeper, until his mouth was pressed against the thing's pubic hair, and its cock must have been deep down his throat. The Master watched as the Doctor swallowed around its flesh, making it let out one of the most deliciously, helplessly ecstatic noises he had ever heard.

"Stop," it panted. "Stop, stop, stop -- "

The Doctor drew back, releasing it from his mouth.

"What, is something wr-- " was all he was able to get out before the metacrisis hauled him up and pulled him into an enthusiastic kiss.

"Any more of that," it said, still kissing him, "and I was going to come."

"Well," the Doctor started, before being interrupted by another kiss, "that's sort of, mm, the point."

"Not yet," it replied. It pulled back, looking both very aroused, and very earnest. "I want to be inside you for that."

"Oh," the Doctor said, the tips of his ears going pink. "Oh, well, I think I probably have something we can use in one of my pockets..." he said, turning to rummage through his jacket.

"No, no, no," the metacrisis said, gazing at him with wide, bright eyes. "Not like that." It tapped on the Doctor's forehead. "Inside _here_."

The Doctor blinked in amazement.

"Are you sure?" he asked. 

The metacrisis nodded.

The Master felt even more astonished than the Doctor looked. But why should he be surprised that the Doctor would do such a thing? The Doctor had already proven he was willing to engage in nearly every other perversely intimate act with his own metacrisis, why not that? 

The Doctor gazed in wonderment at the metacrisis as it finished unbuttoning the Doctor's shirt, sliding the fabric from his shoulders. It pulled his undershirt off next, smiling at the way it mussed the Doctor's hair, then pressed a palm against the Doctor's bare chest.

"What's that for?" the Doctor asked, looking down at his double's hand.

"Just feeling your hearts beat," it said.

The metacrisis leaned forward to kiss the Doctor's neck as its hands fell to the Doctor's trousers. It pressed its palm over the bulge there, stroking him through the fabric, before moving onto his fly. Soon, the Doctor's trainers, trousers and pants were on the floor.

"Socks too, Spaceman," the metacrisis ordered. 

The Doctor pulled a face, but obliged easily enough, which left him sitting completely naked on the sofa. "What about you?" he asked, nodding at his double's t-shirt. It lifted its arms, and the Doctor pulled its shirt off and tossed it on the pile of their clothing. The Master looked back and forth between them -- he couldn't see a single physical difference between them, and with his mental shields as tight as they were, he couldn't feel one either. He could only tell them apart by the sweaty dampness of the metacrisis's hair. It was unnerving.

The Doctor grabbed the afghan from the back of the sofa, and spread it on the floor. "Come on," he said, pulling his double down onto the blanket beside him. "Don't want you falling onto the floor and cracking your head, that'd really kill the mood."

Tellingly, it had no sarcastic rejoinder to that, but simply laid down next to the Doctor, looking excited and nervous. The Doctor had a similar expression. He cupped his double's face, holding it like one might hold a piece of blown glass, like it was something precious and fragile and beautiful.

"I trust you," he said.

The metacrisis kissed him, long and slow. It brought its hands up to the Doctor's temples, and let its forehead touch the Doctor's. 

"Contact," it whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

Years before, galaxies away, it was night-time on the Valiant. The Valiant could fly all over the world, adapt itself to every one of the Earth's time zones, but the Master had found that if he didn't let the ship keep to at least a rough twenty-four hour schedule, his servants, soldiers, and administrators operated at less than peak efficiency. It annoyed him, but that was the price one payed for taking over a backward planet inhabited by a such a limited species. 

On this particular night, the Master had paced up and down the same dark stretch of corridor more times than he wanted to consider. He had work to do -- the global helium shortage was severely interfering with his munitions production, especially at his Russian facilities, and the rebellion in the Ukraine was slowing work on the fusion plant that would solve the problem. But every time he tried to sit down and concentrate, his thoughts would jump and scatter like so many marbles sitting on the face of a thumping loudspeaker. And then, invariably, he'd find himself back here, pacing in front of the same door.

Two Toclafane hovered behind him, curious, but as always, obedient. He could hear their little knives and blades stir whenever he stopped in front of the door, just audible over the low hum of the Valiant's engines. He could hear them perfectly, even though it felt like the pounding in his head was so loud it should drown out everything else.

He put his hand on the door. He heard the sound of metal on metal again. "Stay out here," he told them.

"Yes, Mister Master," one of the Toclafane said, sounding like a child whose candy has been cruelly taken away. 

The room was dim and quiet; quiet enough that the Master could hear the Doctor's slow, even breathing from the pallet in the far corner. The Master sat down next to him, wrinkling his nose at the odours of stale sweat and vomit that lingered around his sleeping prisoner, before reaching out with one hand and tapping him hard on the forehead. The Doctor mumbled something incoherent and tried to turn away.

"Wakey wakey," the Master said, giving him four more hard taps. "Stay right there," he told the Doctor, freezing him instantly in an effort to sit up. "I know you must be tired."

The Doctor said nothing. The Master saw the Doctor's eyes flick from his face down to his hands, looking for the laser screwdriver, but the Master's hands were empty. After a few moments he let the Master press him back down on to the pallet, his movement stiff, as though his muscles had forgotten how to properly work. 

The Doctor was dressed in his trousers and an undershirt dark with sweat rings, and worse. His shirt and jacket were balled up underneath his head in a rather depressing attempt at a pillow. The Master made a mental note to have the Doctor, as well as his clothes, washed the next day. He laid one hand on the Doctor's chest, feeling his lungs subtly expand and contract under his ribcage. He felt the Doctor's hearts beating; the right one fast, the left one erratic and slow, still recovering from their session earlier in the day. 

"Admiring you handiwork?" the Doctor asked, voice low and hoarse. 

"Yes," the Master said. He stretched his fingers out to touch a dark stain on the Doctor's undershirt. Blood, or something else? He wasn't sure; the room was too dim to really tell one way or the other. The Master leaned over the Doctor, lowering his head until it rested on the Doctor's chest, and he could hear those heartbeats thumping just below his ear. The Doctor's right heart quickened, _one two three four, one two three four_ , while his left stuttered, arrhythmic and weak.

"Maybe that's the only way," the Master murmured. 

"The only way to what?" the Doctor croaked.

"To make it stop." He pressed his ear closer to the Doctor's chest, focusing on that sound, that sound without rhythm. "It's so loud," he whispered. "I can't think."

He felt a hand on his head. The Doctor's touch was gentle as he carded his fingers through the Master's hair. 

"If you can't think," he asked, raw and gravelly, "what do you feel?" His breath was warm along the Master's scalp.

"You," the Master said. His fingers tightened on top of the Doctor's filthy shirt. Everything was so muddled, so jumbled up. The Doctor was clarity. The Doctor was focus. 

"Blimey, I sound like an advert for herbal tea," the Doctor rumbled, as if the Master had spoken aloud. Maybe he had. "Is that next? You going to grind me up and drink my bones of an evening?"

"Sounds tempting. I wouldn't even have to kill you," the Master murmured contemplatively, tracing the veins of the Doctor's bare arm with one hand. "I could just hack off a couple of limbs."

"You've already got my hand in a jar," the Doctor pointed out. "No further maiming necessary."

"Where's the fun in that?" the Master asked. "Besides, I like keeping your hand bubbling away in the State Room. It's a perfect conversation starter when I've got guests."

"Sounds positively charming," the Doctor said. The Master could feel the Doctor's mind just brushing his own, a soothing mental mirror of his hand, still gently stroking the Master's hair. The Master took a long, slow breath. 

"How do you do that?" he asked.

"Do what?" the Doctor murmured. 

"Make the drums quieter," the Master said. "How do you do that, if you can't hear them?"

"I don't know," the Doctor replied.

"You _can_ hear them," the Master insisted. It was the only thing that made sense. How else could the Doctor lay there; weak, and injured, and utterly powerless, but still be able to hold the Master, literally, in the palm of his hand?

"I can't," the Doctor rasped. "I'm sorry."

"You're a liar," the Master said. He felt the Doctor sigh softly against his hair.

"Not about this," the Doctor said. 

"Why can't you hear it?" the Master asked, a plaintive note in his voice. He knew, he _knew_ that if only the Doctor could hear, he would understand. He would understand everything.

"Maybe I could," the Doctor said.

There was a long silence. The Master knew exactly what the Doctor was offering. _Let me help you_. He had sneered every time the Doctor had said it, because he knew what it really meant. 

_Let me in._

_Let me change you._

_Let me destroy everything you know. Everything you are._

But this night, it felt different. This night, he wasn't afraid. He was tired. He was so tired.

"All right," the Master finally said. He felt the Doctor let out a silent breath into his hair. The Doctor's fingers, ever gentle, slipped down to settle lightly on the Master's temple. The Master felt the Doctor press a single, unexpected kiss against the top of his head.

"Trust me," the Doctor whispered. 

_No_ , the Master wanted to say. But he stayed silent, his own hearts suddenly thumping against his ribcage as he felt the Doctor touch the surface of his mind, a caress like a thumb swiping gently across his lip. His synapses buzzed, all out of proportion to the delicacy of the gesture. _Stupid_ , he thought, but he couldn't get his brain chemistry under control.

He was sure the Doctor could feel it, and he waited for the inevitable chuckle or flippant comment, but nothing came. The Doctor's mind stayed pressed close to his, feeling expectant. Almost reverent. It ocurred to the Master that he had no idea how long it had been for the Doctor, since the War. For the Master it had been decades -- nearly an entire human lifetime. But, apart from the last eighteen months, he'd been trapped in a human body; unaware of his true self, unaware of how alone he truly was in the vastness of the universe. It could have been just as long for the Doctor. Longer, even. The Doctor could have spent year after year after year mentally reaching out to the place in his mind where all the other Time Lords through all of history should have been, and finding nothing. 

Until now.

Cautiously, the Master opened himself up. He felt the Doctor's fingers twitch against his head, heard the Doctor's hearts thump and stutter. And then, he felt the Doctor flow inside of him, and all of those physical sensations were swept away by the sheer _presence_ of the Doctor flowing through him. Surrounding him. It was like stepping outside and feeling the warmth of the sun on your face, when for years, you'd been imprisoned in one small room, with one small, painted-over window, and your only chance at light was to try to scrape the paint away at the edges. The Master gathered that warmth, held it close, and he felt the Doctor do the same, felt the certainty, the rightness, after nearly two years of planning and plotting and now the Doctor was _here_ , beneath him, inside him, around him. 

_I've got you,_ he thought. _I've got you, I've got you, I've got you._

He felt the Doctor going deeper and deeper, trying to follow the echo of the drums, little flashes of thoughts and emotions and memory surfacing and then sinking again. He saw himself, smiling as he programmed the beat into the Archangel satellite network; felt himself drumming his fingers against the back of a minister's Edwardian armchair at party, nodding politely as he contemplated how he'd kill her over the holiday break; saw Chantho lay a hand on his shoulder and ask him if he was feeling all right, and then himself covering her hand with his own. _Just a headache, my dear, just a headache...._

The Master gave a mental shudder, caught between fear and excitement, repulsion and pleasure. He'd forgotten, truly forgotten what it felt like to join with another person's mind, the strangeness of it, the invasion of the self, the absolute euphoria that flowed through both mind and body when faced with the inescapable truth of one's connection to another life. He could feel the Doctor's own euphoria, his absolute joy, the first real sense, in so, so many years, that finally, he wasn't alone. His joy was infectious. The Master felt that if he'd been grounded in his own body, he'd be giggling, burying his face in the Doctor's chest and laughing with joy into his disgusting shirt. The drums were forgotten, their never-ending beat completely drowned out by the pure, simple ecstasy of their two minds, joined together. 

_Deeper_ , he thought, _deeper, now_ , and the Doctor obliged, his fiery happiness lighting up every part of the Master that he reached, and the Master wanted more, more, wanted to pull the Doctor down and down and down, so deep that the Doctor could never get out, that the drums could never come back, so that the Doctor would always be there, inside him. 

He could do that. 

He could twine himself around and in and through the Doctor, weave their selves together so tight that every last barrier would give way, dissolving and synthesising, the last two Time Lords in the entire universe becoming one, inseparable, forever.

_Wouldn't that be good?_

The Doctor's mind trembled, the happiness sputtering, unsure. The Master could feel the conflict. Taste the little sparks of dread, of excitement. Temptation. He pulled the Doctor deeper.

_You'd never be alone. Ever again._

The Doctor's growing fear was welling up around the Master, becoming a stream, then a flood. The Master swirled it tighter around himself, bathing in it, drinking it in; laughing when he found that slim, shining thread of desire in the Doctor and _pulled_. 

_I know you want it. I know you. And I'm the only one who does, in the whole of the universe. I know you. I know you._

The Doctor's mind flailed, like a suicidal man who's voluntarily walked into the crashing waves, but whose body can't help but choke on the water. Need and longing and terror rushed over the Master, and he submerged himself in it, and the Doctor's fear was his fear, the Doctor's excitement was his excitement, his hope, his despair, his love, his everything, _everything_ \-- 

\-- and suddenly he felt a devastating, almost physical _wrench_ and it was all gone, and the Master was alone.

His head spun, reeling from the sudden psychic desertion and the instantaneous resurgence of the drums in his head, pounding louder than ever. He gathered his senses, literally, building them back up and grounding himself once again in his body, in his timestream; the drawing in and out of breath, the sensation of the Doctor's body trembling beneath him, the careful stacking of seconds stretching forward and backward and all around. He sat up, slowly, and looked down at the Doctor, one hand spread over each of the Doctor's hearts, feeling their unsynchronised beats thumping into his palms. He couldn't believe what he'd been about to do. What the Doctor had almost _made_ him do. He'd could have lost himself... lost himself forever....

The Doctor stared up at him, and the Master felt betrayed yet again, that the Doctor would give him such a perfect expression of shock and desolation at the precise moment when the Master would be utterly unable to enjoy it. 

"What were you trying to hide from me?" the Master asked, his voice low, and dangerous. 

The Doctor, apart from his shallow, trembling breaths, was silent. This was all the confirmation the Master needed. The Master leaned closer, focused on how the dim light of the room shone off of the Doctor's unshed tears. 

" _What. Was. It?_ " he hissed. 

The Doctor said nothing. 

If the Doctor's presence in the Master's mind had been like warm sunshine, his sudden absence was like finding oneself floating through the cold vacuum of space, alone, the nearest sun trillions of miles away. A pure, righteous fury kept the Master's hand steady as he reached into his jacket and withdrew his laser screwdriver. He held it to the Doctor's throat, pressing it into the sensitive tissue just below his jaw. The Doctor flinched, making a tear break free and roll unnoticed down the side of his face. 

"I know you've got a plan, Doctor," the Master said. "I saw you whisper in brave little Martha Jones's ear while I was taking over this pathetic planet. That's what you're trying to keep me from seeing, isn't it?" He pressed the screwdriver deeper into the Doctor's flesh. " _Isn't it?_ "

The Doctor shook his head. 

The Master thumbed the settings on the screwdriver, selecting one at random. It let out the slightest whine as it powered up; a sound beyond the range of human hearing. But not his. Or the Doctor's. 

"Better tell me, Doctor," he sing-songed. He felt the Doctor swallow.

"I... I was afraid," the Doctor rasped. 

"Of what?" the Master demanded.

"Of losing myself." The Doctor blinked, and another tear slipped free. "Of losing you."

The Master regarded him for a long moment. He brought his free hand up to the Doctor's face, and wiped away his tears with a gentle thumb. 

"Nice try, Doctor," he said. He activated the screwdriver.

The shriek the Doctor let out was was like no sound he'd never heard before, not in a thousand years of wandering and exile and murder. 

_Good_ , the Master thought. It hadn't been a lethal setting after all. 

When he was done, the Master watched the Doctor try to crawl into the corner, his whole body shivering and twitching. He only made it a few inches before he gave up, curling in on himself and clutching at his chest, his face a mask of agony. The Master let him shake and choke for a full minute before he turned the Doctor onto his back and felt for his heartbeats. The left one had stopped completely. 

The Master placed both hands over the left side of the Doctor's chest, and applied a strong compression. Then another. And another. The Doctor let out a weak, strangulated cry, and the Master felt for his heartbeat. It was back -- slow, thready, but there. The Master let out a long, relieved breath. He looked down at the Doctor with a sneer. 

"If you even _think_ of regenerating," he breathed, fisting his hands into the Doctor's repulsive, sweat-damp undershirt, "I will kill one member of the Jones family for each one of your hearts. _Do you understand me?_ "

The Doctor made a movement with his head that might have been a nod, or a spasm. It was close enough for the Master. He shoved the Doctor back onto his pallet and left the room. He didn't look back. 

Out in the corridor he slumped back against the closed door. The drums were pounding worse than ever. He wiped sweat off of his forehead with a weak palm. 

"Oh, Mister Master," one of the Toclafane said, sinking down to hover close. "You look unwell! How can we help you?"

"We want to help," the second Toclafane said. 

"You saved us," said the first Toclafane.

"Yes, you saved us!" the second repeated. "We love the Mister Master," it said.

The Master slid down to crouch on the floor, and held his head in his hands. 

 

********

 

The Master watched his captors from his balcony, and wondered if he and the Doctor had been as quiet as the Doctor and his double were at this moment. He didn't know. He'd deleted and purged the Valiant's security footage for that night without ever watching it. Now he watched the two below him, one Time Lord, one not. He couldn't tell which was which now. They were wrapped up close in one other, legs tangled, arms wrapped around each other, barely moving -- barely even breathing, it seemed. He wondered how often they did this. If it felt different with an almost-human. If it felt as complete. 

If he relaxed his mental shields, just the tiniest bit, would they notice? 

Just enough to feel their presence in his mind. Not to touch them. Not to join them.

He imagined standing up, descending the spiral stairs, walking toward them until he stood right beside them. He imagined crouching down and touching one of their long, lean backs, letting the temperature of the bare skin tell him whether it was the Doctor or the metacrisis. 

What would they do? 

Would he be welcomed? 

Rejected? 

Laughed at?

He imagined feeling the hot flesh of the metacrisis, trailing his hands up its smooth skin, up past its shoulders, imagined wrapping his hands around its throat, feeling its windpipe crush beneath his fingers. Just picturing it sent an instantaneous paralysis from his bracelets through his entire body. 

Good. 

A slight whimper, almost of pain, came from the two on the floor. The Master watched their biceps strain as they pulled each other closer, like they were trying to meld their bodies together; watched their thighs flex as they rocked against one another. One of them cried out, voice muffled by the other's skin, and the sound sent another shiver through the Master's body, breaking through the paralysis of the bracelets. The sound was repeated, longer this time, desperate sounding, and then suddenly the voice was cut off and they both collapsed on each other.

It was nearly a minute before one of them rolled over and took a deep, shuddering breath. 

"Bloody hell," it groaned, running a hand through its hair. The Master couldn't help but notice the come smeared across its belly and thighs. It looked over to its companion, lying silent and still next to it, and concern bloomed across its features. "You all right, Earthboy?" Ah. So this one was the Doctor.

The Doctor didn't get a response. He leaned over the metacrisis, checking its breathing, then its pulse, and apparently finding them acceptable. "C'mon now, you stubborn little wanker," he said, patting it gently on the face. He was starting to really look worried when the metacrisis finally stirred. 

"Calm down, Spaceman," it mumbled, eyes still closed. The metacrisis waved a sluggish hand at the Doctor, like it was trying to swat at an annoying fly through molasses. "Just m' stupid human brain... thing. Got all, y'know.... Gets a bit... overloaded. Sorry."

"Stupid?" the Doctor scoffed, looking relieved and delighted. He laughed and kissed the metacrisis on the mouth. "More like incredible," another kiss, on the cheek, "wonderful," another, between its brows " _extraordinary_ human brain."

"Hmph," the metacrisis said, but it was smiling.

The Doctor kissed it a few more times for good measure, then sat back up. "You look knackered," he said, brushing a lock of damp hair from his double's face. 

"Mmph."

The Doctor reached into the pile of clothing beside them, and pulled out his own undershirt. The metacrisis squirmed ineffectually as the Doctor used it to wipe the come from its stomach and between its legs. "You'll thank me later," he said, wiping himself off next, and then tossing the soiled vest onto the sofa. He manoeuvered the metacrisis back into its pyjama bottoms and its flimsy top, then pulled on his own trousers. "Let's get you to bed," he said, carefully helping the metacrisis to its feet. 

The metacrisis batted at him. "You don't... y' don't need to carry me, you doughnut --" 

"Of course not," the Doctor said, catching it as it stumbled and nearly fell into the collected works of L. Frank Baum. He slid one bare arm around its back and under its arm, supporting its weight against his side. "Why don't I just walk with you," the Doctor offered. 

"Mmkay," the metacrisis mumbled, laying its head on the Doctor's shoulder. 

The Master watched as the Doctor slowly half-carried the metacrisis through the stacks, until they both disappeared from view. He heard the door to the library open and close. 

He listened for one minute. Two. Three. It didn't open again. 

The Master made his way down a spiral staircase and through the stacks, until he stood in front of the sofa. The Doctor had left most of his clothes in a pile on the floor next to the rumpled afghan. The soiled vest lay in a crumpled heap on the sofa itself. The Master touched it, lightly, like a sleeping animal. He looked down at the trace of come on the tip of his finger, and wondered whose it was. He'd easily be able to taste the difference. He brought it closer to his mouth, considering for a long moment, before finally wiping his finger on his shirt. 

He was letting himself get distracted.

The Master grabbed the Doctor's jacket from the back of the sofa and plunged his hands into its pockets. He rifled through them, pulling out a yo-yo, a travel-sized copy of _Love Songs of Aggedor_ , a rubber band ball, a small box labeled "Caution: Cuttlefish", a miniature bust of Abraham Lincoln -- for the love of time, how did the Doctor ever find anything in this mess? -- a half-eaten packet of seaweed crisps, and then, finally, what the Master was actually looking for.

His sonic screwdriver.

The Master pressed it against his restraining bracelet and thumbed it on.

Nothing happened.

Isomorphic controls. _Of course._

The Master stared down at the screwdriver, his hands shaking with fury, then threw it against the wall with a clatter. He kicked over an end table, making the books that had been piled high upon it fly across the room. He turned to rage against one of the stories-tall bookcases, wanting to punch and kick it until it was destroyed, and his hands and feet were bloody and broken, but his body froze. The Doctor had been right. The bracelets wouldn't let him hurt anyone, not even himself.

The Master sank down onto the afghan on the floor, and curled himself into a tight ball. He stayed like that for a long time. 

Eventually, his heartbeats slowed, and his boiling rage and panic cooled, solidifying into a formidable, icy hate; an emotion that was both familiar and comfortable. He rolled over to lay on his back, and saw the pile of the Doctor's clothes. The Doctor would be back for them. Probably sooner rather than later. The idea of allowing the Doctor to find him like this, lying in the afterglow of the Doctor's exquisite mindfuck, surrounded in the detritus of an angry tantrum, finally prompted the Master into motion. He picked up the end table, arranging the books precisely as they had been. After a few minutes searching under shelves, he retrieved the sonic screwdriver, looking none the worse for wear. He spent about two seconds considering whether the Doctor had had all of the objects in his pockets in a specific order he should have noticed until he remembered how absolutely idiotic it was to presume the Doctor ever kept _anything_ in order, then he shoved everything back into the jacket's pockets and arranged the jacket on the back of the sofa, just as it had been. 

The Master spared one last glance before he headed to the door, his eyes lingering for the barest of moments on the crumpled shirt on the sofa. Then he left, the door closing behind him with a quiet _snick_.

He made his way through the dim, night-lit corridors to the console room. It was dim in here too; even the heart of the ship conceding to the unnecessary rhythm of an Earth-based diurnal cycle. Every tool, button, and lever in the room was isomorphically locked. He'd discovered that his first night on the TARDIS. He hadn't expected to be able to pilot the ship, but they'd even locked the scanners, so he couldn't see outside. 

He walked to the doors of the TARDIS, and leaned his head against the window to gaze through the faux-glass. He'd expected to see nothing. Maybe the temporal swirl of the time vortex. But the Doctor had parked the TARDIS in orbit around a nebula, and the Master could see the glow of the ionised gases; beautiful, diffuse towers of dust and hydrogen and helium, shining against the surrounding black emptiness of space.

He stayed there, gazing at the pulse and throb of the radiation, until the dim illumination of the artificial night began to give way to the brightness of the artificial morning. 

 

 

end


End file.
